


The Thrill Of The Chase

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Can also be read as not first time, Can be read as established relationship, Feral Behavior, First Time, Forest Sex, Hunting kink, M/M, PWP, Rimming, biting kink, i apologize for everything, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:19:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23824453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: Geralt is trying to teach Jaskier how to sword-fight, but the Bard is having none of it, saying that he can outrun any and all danger, anyways. Geralt agrees that Jaskier won't have to train, but only if the Bard can outrun him.Things turn out a little differently than expected.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 789





	The Thrill Of The Chase

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello! This is my first smut fic so be patient with me and the awkward transitions lmao. Also I had no beta so I'm sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes :(
> 
> Please do leave a comment with your thoughts on this fic, I'd very much like to know what y'all liked (or disliked, that's okay too)!

Jaskier lets out a long breath as his back connects with the dirt and the grass in the clearing of the forest. He lays there for another second, not willing to get up just yet – muscles burning, lungs heaving, sweat trickling down the side of his face – until a boot prods at his side. “Come on, get up.”

He rolls his eyes, looking up at Geralt as the Witcher looks down on the Bard. His silver hair is illuminated by the late afternoon sun, face half cast in shadows, amber eyes burning like embers in the ashes, sweat glistening on his neck and arms. _Does he knows how gorgeous he is? –_ a stray part of Jaskier’s mind wonders, immediately followed by a fleeting: _I could get used to this sight._

He blinks a few times, trying to force the thoughts away. He sighs again, as dramatically as possible to perfectly encapsulate how much he does _not_ want to get up, _thank you very much._ “Do I really have to, Geralt?”

The Witcher rolls his eyes. “Yes, you have to.” He takes a step back, leather boot lightly kicking at Jaskier’s leg. “We’ve barely even started.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens in confusion, and he stammers a bit. “Wh- _what?_ I- you- _barely even started?_ We’ve been doing this for _hours,_ Geralt!” He lets his head fall back in the dirt, cringing at the realization that his sweaty hair is now probably caked in sand, and he dramatically slings his arm over his eyes, letting out a theatric sigh. “I don’t have a Witcher’s stamina, Geralt. I mean, are you _trying_ to kill me?”

He yelps as he feels the Witcher taking a fistful of the front of his shirt, hoisting the Bard to his feet in one swift movement. Jaskier blushes and stammers some more at the fact that the Witcher just manhandled him without batting an eye. _Gods, he’s strong._ A stray part of his mind wonders if there are other ways Geralt could manhandle him, and something warm coils in the pit of his belly.

He nearly scoffs at the question his mind poses. Of course there are other ways for the Witcher to manhandle him – it’s not as if he hasn’t thought about it almost every day since he met Geralt.

He’s barely aware he’s still holding onto Geralt’s arm, reveling in the way the muscles roll under his fingers, until the Witcher lets go of his shirt, pulling his arm back. Jaskier blinks, then clears his throat, trying to push away some _very_ explicit images that his mind has pulled from his overactive imagination.

He wipes a hand over his brow, scrunching his nose at the feeling of sweat on his forehead, sticking against his skin. “Seriously, though. How much longer do I have to keep this up? It’s so late already and I’m _tired_ and _sweaty_ and _in pain_ and-“

He yelps again as the flat side of Geralt’s sword hits his arm. “Hey!”

“Stop whining, Jaskier. We’ve only been practicing for two hours.” The Witcher looks exasperated, rolling his amber eyes at the Bard’s theatrics.

“Geralt, _please._ ” Jaskier pouts a bit, letting his shoulders sag as he puts on his best puppy dog eyes and whiniest voice. He knows Geralt is more likely to give him what he wants when he does that – he’s not sure why, but gladly takes advantage of it, anyways.

“No,” Geralt says, voice stern, rolling his eyes as Jaskier pouts harder. “Stop acting like a baby, it’s just some sword training.”

The Bard lets go of his pouty face, instead throwing his head back in annoyance as he groans. “Ugh! Why do we even have to do this, Geralt? I’ve always got you to protect me, don’t I?”

Geralt’s jaw clenches, and he rams his practice sword into the dirt, where it stands up, still shaking a bit with the force of the impact. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, equally as stubborn as the Bard. “No, you don’t. And it can never hurt to know how to defend yourself.”

Jaskier throws his arms out theatrically, shrugging. “But I don’t _need_ to defend myself! If there’s any danger, I can just run away! There! Problem solved. Now can I _please_ take a bath and get something to eat?” He’s half shouting by the end of the sentence, his own frustration shining through in his voice.

Geralt wipes his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t just outrun everyone, Jaskier! That’s not how life works!”

Jaskier scoffs. “Oh, please, that’s _exactly_ how it works. But of course you wouldn’t know, oh, mighty Witcher who only ever runs from his feelings! No, trust me, I’ve been running away from danger most of my life, and it’s worked out splendidly so far!”

“Like shit is has! If it weren’t for me, you’d get beaten up every other day! No,” he points his finger at the Bard and Jaskier swallows thickly at the growl in the Witcher’s voice, the way his shoulders are set in annoyance and anger, the way those amber eyes capture and pin him down until he can’t move or breathe, “no.” Geralt repeats. “You can’t outrun danger. You never have and you never will.”

Jaskier scoffs again, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I bet I _can_. I bet I can outrun any danger, as a matter of fact.”

Geralt sighs, shaking his head slightly, as his shoulders start to relax in defeat, and Jaskier ignores the pang of disappointment in his chest. _Come on, Witcher, fight me, push back._ “You’re so insufferably stubborn, do you know that?” Geralt sighs again, fingers closing around the hilt of his practice sword, still sticking from the dirt. “Whatever. Pick up your sword, Jaskier, we’re training until nightfall.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, then frowns, taking a step back. “No.”

He nearly smiles in satisfaction as Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he looks at the Bard incredulously. There’s a dangerous glint in those amber eyes, sending shivers down Jaskier’s spine. “No?” the Witcher asks. A question, an opportunity to give in, chicken out, back away, say he didn’t really mean it and _sure, he’ll continue training until nightfall, absolutely._

Jaskier doesn’t take it. He _wants_ to rile the Witcher up, _wants_ to see the anger in his eyes and the way his shoulders are set in annoyance, _wants- needs_ Geralt’s rage, his strength, the danger he possesses. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t care – he _needs_ it.

He takes another step back. “No,” he says again, hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt, anticipation coiling in his chest.

Geralt _growls,_ fists clenching in annoyance, and Jaskier swallows thickly at the sight, something warm curling down his spine straight to his cock. The Witcher stalks forward, and Jaskier takes another few steps back. “I refuse,” he says, his voice trembling, but not with fear – with _anticipation_ and _excitement._ He tries not to grin, the corners of his mouth twitching as he sees Geralt still stalking forward, towards him.

His breath catches in his throat as his back hits a tree at the edge of the clearing, and Geralt continues advancing in on him like a wolf on its prey. He realizes he could easily move to the side, escape the Witcher, but he _doesn’t want to._ So he stays there, trying his best to look as fearful as he should be, before Geralt reaches him.

He flinches as Geralt’s hand slams into the tree next to his head, and his hands fumble at the bark behind him. His knees tremble at the proximity, at the feeling of Geralt’s hot breath fanning against his skin, at the danger in the Witcher’s eyes, at the fact that Geralt could utterly destroy him right there and then if he wanted to – _in more ways than one._

He swallows thickly again, trying and failing to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. “I refuse,” he repeats meekly.

Geralt chuckles, low and dangerous, the gravel in his voice scraping against Jaskier’s skin. “You refuse,” he says flatly, and his breath smells like lemon and ginger – fresh and sharp yet warm and heavy at the same time. He sneers at Jaskier, amusement and anger in those amber eyes. “Fine,” he spits out.

Jaskier frowns, confused, as disappointment curls in his chest. He hadn’t expected Geralt to give in so easily – _hoped_ he wouldn’t. _Where’s the fight Geralt usually possesses?_

He fights to hide a wild grin as Geralt leans in closer, bringing his lips level with Jaskier’s ear, his hot breath fanning against his skin. “You said you could run away from danger, right?” His voice is low and dangerous, and Jaskier’s cock twitches in interest – he hopes Geralt doesn’t notice. “ _Any_ danger, you said.”

Geralt turns his head a bit, amber eyes amused and annoyed as he waits for Jaskier to answer. The Bard swallows thickly, then nods quickly, his voice caught in his throat.

“Hmm,” the Witcher hums, “well, then. Prove it to me. Prove it and you won’t have to train again. But only if,” his voice deepens even more somehow, and Jaskier feels his knees starting to give out underneath him, a single drop of sweat rolling down the back of his neck into his shirt, “only if you can outrun me.”

He can almost _feel_ Geralt grinning next to him, and a shiver runs down his spine. “If not,” the Witcher continues, his voice dropping to a whisper, and all hope Jaskier had for Geralt not noticing the fact that he’s already half-hard shatters as the Witcher presses his thigh between his legs. The friction nearly makes his eyes roll back into his head, a choked-off sound escaping from his lips.

“If not,” Geralt repeats, “I get to do whatever I want with you. Deal?” He pulls back, and Jaskier’s knees nearly buckle at the loss of friction when the thigh is removed from between his legs. Geralt sneers at Jaskier – _like a wolf at its prey._ The Witcher waits for an answer, and Jaskier can only stare, dazed.

He clears his throat, pushing himself away from the tree. “D-“ he swallows thickly “deal.”

“Well then,” the Witcher sneers, amber eyes shining with anticipation and danger and something sharp and hot and heavy – like the lemon and ginger on his breath.

Geralt pulls his eyebrows up expectantly, cocking his head. “Run, little lark.”

***

Jaskier’s lungs are already heaving as he pushes himself away from the tree further, setting down the hill, away from the clearing.

He knows he could simply say no, knows he could just stay and let Geralt have his way with him – _gods, he knows he wants to_ – but adrenaline courses through his veins at the thought of the Witcher chasing him through the woods, at the knowledge that he can try to run, but he’ll never escape, that he’s at the Witcher’s mercy.

So, he runs, the weakness leaving his knees as each step grows longer and quicker than the last. His feet move as fast as possible, lungs burning, begging for each ragged breath he manages to suck in, as he weaves between the trees, leaping over small branches and around bushes that litter the spaces in-between.

The faster he runs, the more exhilarated he becomes, his eyes tearing a bit as the air whips around him. He looks back, and a shock of white hair fifty yards away from him pushes him to run even faster. He wants Geralt to catch him – _needs_ him to, but he doesn’t want to give up too soon, doesn’t want to let go of this feeling of _adrenaline_ and _danger_ that courses through his veins. Not only that, but he desperately wants the Witcher riled up with the thrill of the chase, when he takes Jaskier.

He nearly stumbles at the thought, the realization that this is probably going to end with him getting fucked into the dirt by the Witcher hitting him like a sack of bricks. _We could make it so good, we could make it so divine._

The forest begins to slope down further, the trees steadily growing thicker and older, the heavy air damp and warm around him as he runs on and on. The spaces between the trees narrow a bit, and he has to concentrate to not hurtle head-first into a tree every now and then.

His mind comes up with an idea, and he flings his arm out, grabbing onto a tree and using his own momentum to hurl himself around the bend. He does this a couple of times more, trying to throw the Witcher off his scent – even though he knows it won’t work. Still, it makes the chase all the more exciting.

He jumps over another branch, this one thicker than the others, and he miscalculates his step, his foot catching on the bark. He stumbles forward a bit, arms flailing wildly, hitting his hand against a tree, scratching his skin. He hisses at the pain, but regains his footing and continues running.

He chances another look behind him and Geralt is gone. He slows a bit, hopping on one leg as he pulls one shoe off, throwing it behind him. The other one flies to the left. He hopes the scent will throw the Witcher off for at least a few seconds.

He starts running in earnest again, still weaving between the trees, once in a while changing directions. He can’t hear or see Geralt, but he knows the Witcher is close – after all, once Geralt has his eye set on a prey, he does not give up.

The thought fills him with exhilaration, and a new wave of adrenaline courses through his veins. He pulls off his shirt, throwing it to his left, changing directions to run to the right. Another branch blocks his path, and he takes another leap. He feels like he’s flying for a few seconds, as he lands a few feet down the hill, taking off into a sprint again.

The muscles in his legs are starting to burn, and his lungs can barely provide for him anymore, he realizes, as he almost slips on a patch of wet moss, having trouble to take off running again after he’s regained his balance.

He chances another look behind him, once again seeing nothing. Finally, he slows to a halt, leaning back against a tree, trying to catch his breath. The bark scratches against the bare skin of his back, but he ignores the pain, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound of his ragged breathing.

He flinches a bit as he hears Geralt’s deep rumble call out in the woods somewhere. “You can’t escape, little lark!” It sounds distant, but the words echo around the forest, beneath the high branches, making it hard to pinpoint where the Witcher is.

Jaskier notices he’s shaking, notices his breath coming out in short bursts – not due to fear, he knows, but because of the anticipation, the excitement, the arousal.

“You can’t hide forever!” It sounds bit closer this time, and Jaskier clenches his free hand into a fist, nails scraping against the bark of the tree.

He wants to turn around and glance around the tree, but he knows that if he does and Geralt is there, the Witcher will immediately spot him. However, if the Witcher _isn’t_ there, this would be the opportune moment to start running again.

Again, Geralt’s voice rings out through the woods, deep and melodious and oh so dangerous, once again getting closer: “You can’t outrun a Witcher, little lark.”

Jaskier’s breaths escape his nose in ragged pants, his legs trembling as he tries to decide what to do, his eyes flitting around the forest in front of him.

“After all,” Geralt continues, ever closer, and Jaskier knows he has to do something soon, lest he gets caught.

“I can smell you from a mile away.” Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. Geralt is right on the other side of the tree, he knows. _It’s now or never._

He pushes himself away from the bark, sprinting down the hill. He hears a chuckle, low and cruel right behind him as he does so and he knows he had been right – Geralt’s right there.

His lungs heave, legs burning, thoughts as blurry as the trees that fly past him. He jumps over another branch, and he’s flying for a brief second before his feet make contact with the ground again, knees cracking painfully as he immediately sets off again.

He can feel the ghost of Geralt’s hand on his shoulder once or twice, and he pushes himself to go further, faster, quicker, no matter how tired he is. Shrubbery scratches at his arms, a branch hits him in the face, he steps on sharp rocks and twigs, he slips away on moss a few times, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down.

Finally, the inevitable happens, and he trips over a branch, sending himself flying down the hillside. Dirt and moss break his fall, but he hits his shoulder on the side of the tree, hissing as his hands and lower arms get covered in scratches. He knows he’ll have some nasty bruises come the morning, but he doesn’t care.

His bare feet dig into the dirt as he tries to get up, slipping away a few times. He’s about to take off again when a strong hand takes a hold of his hair, his hands flying up to Geralt’s wrist as the Witcher yanks him back. He groans in pain, scratching at the Witcher’s skin, though it does nothing.

Eventually he’s flush against Geralt’s chest, the Witcher’s arm over his chest like a metal bar, holding him in place. He feels something prod at the back of his thigh, and grins triumphantly at the knowledge that the Witcher is painfully hard.

He’s not going to give up so easily, though.

He struggles against Geralt’s grip, trying to yank himself free, to no avail, and the Witcher chuckles, voice low in Jaskier’s ear. “I got you n-“ it’s cut off, though, as the back of the Bard’s head makes contact with Geralt’s chin in his attempts to break free.

Jaskier stills. “Geralt, I’m so sorry, I-“ he gasps when he feels Geralt’s arm tighten around him, teeth grazing against his bare shoulder.

His breath catches in his throat as the Witcher clamps his mouth down on his skin, gently, then stilling, as if asking for permission. Jaskier pants, shuddering as a shiver runs down his spine. He wants nothing more than for Geralt to bite down, draw blood – marking him. He craves the pain, the pleasure, the reminder that he is Geralt’s, that he can never escape the Witcher no matter how hard he runs.

“Please,” he whispers, hand coming up to grab onto the hair at the back of the Witcher’s head.

He cries out when Geralt’s teeth clamp down, breaking skin, a shiver running straight to his already painfully hard cock at the pain and the animalistic growl Geralt lets out. His vision blurs in pleasure as the Witcher lowers one hand, grabbing him through his thin pants, licking the blood from the bite.

The Witcher chuckles against the skin. “Is this what you want, little lark? To get hunted down, marked, and fucked like an animal?” Jaskier can only pant, nodding his head feverously as his hips buck into Geralt’s palm.

“Please,” he manages to choke out, voice broken and small, as he searches out the friction he so desperately needs.

Geralt chuckles again at Jaskier’s whine as he pulls his hand away. “Filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he purrs into the Bard’s ear.

The breath is knocked out of Jaskier’s lungs when the Witcher turns him around, pushing his back into a tree, nosing at his neck, humming appreciatively.

Jaskier realizes, suddenly, that he could easily escape the Witcher if he wanted to. He’d simply have to duck under his arm, and make a run for it – it’d be so easy, so temptingly easy. He grins. It would absolutely infuriate the Witcher to have his prey take off again – and he wants the Witcher’s anger, the danger and lust in those amber eyes as Geralt fucks him, eventually, hopefully.

He swallows thickly, closing his eyes for a split second before opening them again. He balls his hands, muscles pulled taut in anticipation, waiting for the right moment. “Hmm,” the Witcher hums, still sucking and biting at the Bard’s skin, “I’ve got you where I want you, now.”

Jaskier grins as the Witcher looks up, eyes all dilated pupils, only a small ring of amber left. “Do you?” he asks, and he ducks under Geralt’s arm, setting off into a sprint.

He hears an animalistic growl behind him, the sound shooting straight to his already painfully hard cock, and he laughs as he runs. His laugh is cut short as he slips on some moss, falling back down into the dirt. “Shit!”

He tries to get up again, but Geralt’s weight is already pinning him down, his forearm between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, hand taking a fistful of the Bard’s hair, the other one next to his head. “Told you you couldn’t run from me,” he growls into Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier scratches at the wrist of the arm pinning him down, panting against the forest floor. He hears Geralt hum appreciatively, rolling his hips a bit, pushing his hard cock against the cleft of Jaskier’s ass. The Bard has to choke back a moan, hands trembling as he holds onto Geralt’s arm.

He’s completely at Geralt’s mercy, and he’s never been more aroused in his life. “Please,” he whispers, and the Witcher bends down.

“Please what?” he purrs, and Jaskier shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for – release or mercy or the exact opposite of either.

“Please,” he says again, and Geralt chuckles into his ear.

“Very well, then, little lark.” He takes a hold of Jaskier’s hands, bringing them together behind his back. Jaskier squirms against his grip, even though he knows he _wants_ this – this loss of control, being at the Witcher’s mercy, having to beg for anything and everything, losing himself in the lust that clouds his mind.

He groans as his wrist are bound together by a piece of leather – presumably the Witcher’s hairtie, and he pulls at his bonds, testing them out. He pants as the Witcher takes another fistful of his hair, pulling him back, his spine bending uncomfortably – he welcomes the pain. “Don’t even _think_ about escaping again, little lark.”

Jaskier shakes his head, and Geralt lets go of his hair, letting him rest his forehead against the dirt, shivering in anticipation. The Witcher presses a trail of light sucks and bites down his spine, and Jaskier can do nothing but lie there, waiting for the other shoe to drop, excitement fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

He has to choke back a whimper as Geralt hooks his fingers under the waistband of his pants, pulling them down his legs, kissing along his bare skin. Eventually, he is freed from the clothing, and he hears Geralt tossing the pants into the forest behind him.

He is utterly naked underneath the Witcher’s gaze, and he shivers as Geralt remains silent for a couple of seconds. He chances a look over his shoulder, and sees the Witcher sitting back on his haunches, eyes roving over Jaskier’s naked body hungrily.

“Please,” he whispers, and Geralt’s lust-filled eyes meet his. The Witcher grins, teeth baring like a wolf, and he moves forward.

Jaskier yelps, pain and pleasure coiling in his stomach, as Geralt slaps his ass. “Don’t look back unless I tell you to,” the Witcher growls. Jaskier obliges, pressing his forehead into the dirt, panting.

The Witcher hums in approval, palm softly caressing the spot where he’d hit the Bard. “Such a good little lark. So eager to please.”

Jaskier shivers again as he feels hot breath fanning against his backside, and he squirms in anticipation. “Please,” he repeats, whispering the word over and over again as he pushes his forehead into the dirt.

He feels Geralt’s arm sneak under his hips, whimpering as the Witcher’s hand brushes against his painfully hard cock, before it moves on, eventually grabbing the left side of his hip. Jaskier’s face presses further down into the dirt as Geralt’s arm lifts his hips up a little, hoisting him half on his knees.

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier repeats again, barely able to keep still under the anticipation and pure arousal coursing through his veins.

The Witcher chuckles. “Please what?”

Jaskier groans in annoyance, trying and failing to move his hips somewhat, seeking out friction and release but only finding empty air instead. “Please just _fuck me_ , Witcher. Bury your cock inside me and use me as you please, just-“ he nearly sobs in frustration “just make me come, _please._ ”

The Witcher ‘tsk’s against the back of his thigh. “So eager,” he mumbles, peppering the skin in little kisses and tiny bites, “such filthy words for such a sweet little lark.”

“Geralt, _please,_ ” Jaskier whines, turning his face so that his cheek is pressed against the dirt, squeezing his eyes closed, “ _please._ ”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums. “Very well, then.”

Jaskier barely has time to react before Geralt presses the flat of his tongue against the Bard’s hole, and Jaskier cries out in pleasure, writhing on the forest floor. He whimpers as the Witcher pushes his tongue inside, bound hands clawing at his own back, desperate to hold onto something - _anything._

He sighs when Geralt’s mouth withdraws, pressing his searing forehead into the cool dirt, sweat rolling down the side of his neck. He doesn’t have time to recover, though, as the tip of the Witcher’s finger already presses inside. It’s somehow slick with oil, and Jaskier figures Geralt must’ve taken a bottle of the stuff with him – _he’s come prepared, apparently._

He can’t dwell on it for long, though, as the finger pushes further inside, curling and hitting a certain spot that makes stars dance in front of his eyes. He moans loudly, and he can distantly hear the Witcher chuckle. “So eager, such a perfect little slut for me.”

Another finger is already pressing into him, and he’s a panting mess in Geralt’s hands. “Please, please, gods, Geralt, _please,_ ” he rambles, chest heaving, legs shaking. He’s sure he would’ve collapsed by now if the Witcher hadn’t been holding him up.

Geralt adds a third finger, and Jaskier can only whimper as the Witcher spreads him open, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. A white haze covers his vision, his own whines and pants and moans distant, as he feels his climax approaching. He grins wildly, desperate to fall over that edge.

“Such a sweet little lark, singing for me,” he can hear Geralt mutter against the small of his back, and he wishes his hands were free so he could hold on to those silver locks for dear life, as he comes closer and closer to that peak.

“Geralt,” he sighs, “I’m going to-“ he whines embarrassingly loudly, as the Witcher withdraws his hand with a slick _pop._ “Geralt, _please-_ “

The Witcher peppers small kisses and bites across his back. “Not yet, not yet, little lark.”

“Oh, you _bastard._ Geralt, _please,_ I want to- _I need to-_ “ his voice chokes off and he pushes his forehead into the dirt.

He yelps as he is flipped over, hands trapped between his own back and the dirt. The Witcher hovers over him, gently biting at his neck, teeth grazing over the mark he left earlier. “I know.”

“ _Gods,_ ” Jaskier growls, teeth clenched, “then just get it over with and _fuck me, Witcher._ ”

Geralt looks up, pupils blown wide, barely any sign of the amber left in his eyes, and he moves down, claiming Jaskier’s mouth with his own. They move against each other, teeth clashing, tongues exploring, leaving the Bard gasping for air as Geralt eagerly swallows every sound that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth.

He moves away, throwing his head back when he feels the tip of Geralt’s cock nudging against his entrance, and he opens his legs wider. “ _Gods, yes, please, Geralt, please._ ”

He moans wantonly as Geralt pushes in, and the Witcher growls, low and filthy in his ear. “Such a good little lark, taking my cock so well.”

He barely gets any time to adjust to the absolute massiveness that is the Witcher’s cock, before Geralt starts moving, making the Bard whimper pathetically. The Witcher’s strokes are deliberate and languid, as he moves torturously slowly, leaving Jaskier panting and unsatisfied. “Geralt, _please.”_

The Witcher growls, teeth brushing against the exposed curve of Jaskier’s neck. “Please what?”

Jaskier’s had enough of this game – Geralt knows exactly what he’s asking for, but deliberately makes him use his words just to torture him that little bit more. He groans, pushing and pulling against the bonds that hold his hands together. Finally, he manages to wriggle one free, and grabs Geralt’s face.

The Witcher looks at him, eyes wide in surprise as the Bard’s nails dig into the skin on the side of his head. Jaskier watches as he pulls his hand down, leaving angry, red stripes in Geralt’s skin that will surely heal within minutes. “Please just _fuck me,_ Witcher. Fuck me like you’ve never fucked anyone before, or I swear to the gods-“

Geralt’s eyes darken, and he sneers as he snaps his hips forward. Jaskier cries out in pleasure, head falling backwards into the dirt as the Witcher takes a hold of his wrist, biting into the sensitive skin, growling like an animal.

The Witcher sets an unrelenting pace, fucking the Bard into the dirt, and all Jaskier can do is hold on for dear life, hands clawing at Geralt’s skin as his eyes roll back into his head, lost in pleasure and pain alike. His entire world narrows down to the sharp snaps of the Witcher’s hips, his cock inside of him, hitting that sweet spot over and over again, and the coil that starts to tighten in the pit of his belly again.

Soft words of praise and encouragement fall over his lips, and he’s barely aware he’s saying them. “Please, please- Geralt- feels so good, so good. Don’t stop, please-“

The Witcher bites down on his pulse again, teeth drawing the barest hint of blood, and Jaskier cries out as he is hurtled over the edge, his own come painting white stripes over their chests and stomachs as he moans into the night air.

Geralt comes a few seconds later, groaning low and filthy into the Bard’s ear as he does so. Warmth floods Jaskier, and he smiles lazily at the night sky above him – he hadn’t even noticed the sun setting.

He whimpers as Geralt pulls out, feeling the Witcher’s come leak out of him and onto the dirt below him. Geralt lowers himself on the ground next to Jaskier, staring up at the sky as well.

He hums as Jaskier rolls on his side, nose nuzzling into the Witcher’s shoulder. Geralt, in turn, pulls him closer, his thumb tracing slow and soft circles into his skin.

“I could get used to this,” he mumbles into Geralt’s skin, and he means it. Even though he’s sticky and filthy, covered in dirt, sweat, and come, he’s perfectly happy and satisfied, as he lies there with Geralt, the cool night air kissing his bare skin.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, and Jaskier doesn’t have to look up to know he’s smiling. “So could I.” He shifts a little, tucking the arm that isn’t holding Jaskier under his head. “Still,” he continues, “we _will_ have to start training again tomorrow. After all, you didn’t manage to outrun me.”

Jaskier laughs, slapping Geralt lightly on his sculpted chest. “Oh, please, Witcher, I wasn’t even trying.”

He hears Geralt chuckle. “I know you’re lying, little lark, I can smell it on you.”

“Shut up, Geralt.”


End file.
